


Settle

by lorcaswhisky (aristofranes)



Category: Star Trek: Picard
Genre: F/M, Identity, Piranhas, Zhaban/croissants, and a Very Good Dog, cooking as a coping mechanism, illicit pastries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:00:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22785256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aristofranes/pseuds/lorcaswhisky
Summary: There is no such thing as a former Tal Shiar.During their first year on Earth, Laris and Zhaban try to find their place in a changed world.
Relationships: Laris/Zhaban
Comments: 31
Kudos: 87





	Settle

**Author's Note:**

> With huge thanks to LizBee for reassurance, and for getting me horribly invested in these two in the first place.

"We’re safe here."

Laris snorts.

"All of the Romulans on this vineyard are ex-Tal Shiar. Of course we aren't _safe."_

_"We_ are the only Romulans on this vineyard."

"Precisely! And what do you think will happen if the Tal Shiar get wind of that?"

Zhaban chews at the inside of his mouth. The old joke goes that there is no such thing as a former Tal Shiar. It’s not a particularly funny joke at the best of times, and right now it feels even less amusing than usual.

"The Admiral has a security system," he tries. "It covers the entire estate."

"Insufficient." Laris scowls at the plans he has pulled onto the screen, shaking her head incredulously. "A child could breach this."

Zhaban taps a fingernail against his teeth.

"Perhaps the vines could be trained into new configurations," he says, thoughtful. 

"Oh yes, wonderful, a maze will be very useful once it's fully grown in twenty years' time," Laris retorts. "And we, meanwhile, will have been dead for nineteen and a half of those years."

"Then that gives us six months." Zhaban grins at her. "I can think of plenty of things that we could do with six months."

His attempt at levity falls as flat as his first try at baking those peculiar local pastries with the unpronounceable name. Zhaban has been making it his own private mission to persuade the local _pâtisserie_ to give up their secrets for some weeks now, with remarkably little success. 

And him a former spy. How the mighty have fallen.

"I thought we were going to try and … fit in?" he asks, when Laris turns back to the blueprints of the _château,_ scribbling notes in a crabbed cipher. Booby-trapped bricks in the wall here. A weapons cache there. She has very particular plans for the small pond to the south of the estate. Zhaban ponders the Admiral's opinion on carnivorous fish. 

Laris does not look up, but her shoulders tense, a line more formidable than any of the defences she’s dreaming up.

"I would like to survive for long enough that we are able to," is all she says.

*

"What is that?" Laris asks sharply, one afternoon in the Winter when Zhaban returns from the village, laden with shopping. "On your face?"

"Oh. It's … a disguise," he says, stamping snow from his boots. All of his training, and this is the best he can come up with in the face of Laris's interrogation. But then, he has never been very good at hiding much from her.

There is no such thing as a former Tal Shiar, even when you are in love with a former Tal Shiar. 

She peers at him.

"It's a _beard."_ This feels like a very generous assessment of the light dusting of stubble on Zhaban’s chin, and for a moment pride swells in him, before he catches her tone. "Are you - _cultivating_ it?"

"I thought it would help me to blend in," he admits. A lot of the men in this part of the world sport them, he has noticed. "I am rather … conspicuous."

This is true. Though Zhaban values his life too highly to ever risk saying so out loud, to an untrained human eye, Laris could almost pass for a Vulcan, right up until she opens her mouth. But Zhaban is unmistakably Romulan. And unmistakably treated as such.

Laris's eyes narrow.

"Are you _ashamed?"_ she snaps.

"What? No!" Zhaban says, hurriedly. "I just - I would like to fit in. You said we should try—"

Laris snatches the bag of vegetables - still unfamiliar, all the wrong shapes and colours - from him.

"Not at the expense of losing who you are."

She storms away, and Zhaban, with his pathetic attempt at a human beard and human hat pulled low over his brow, clutching a bag of human pastries in the doorway of this human house, looks at the frost-kissed branches on the trees outside and the snow already settling over his footprints and realises, with a stab of loss, that he cannot quite remember how this time of year used to look, back home.

*

The Admiral's habit of opening windows to 'let in the fresh air' will almost certainly be the death of them all, but they can still make improvements that will stave off their inevitable murders a while longer. Between the two of them, over the months, they manage to whip security on the estate into something approaching acceptable levels. 

There is no such thing as a former Tal Shiar, even when you _are_ a former Tal Shiar. 

Compromise, Laris and Zhaban are beginning to learn, is an important, if deeply irritating, part of human culture. So. Razor wire on the vines is deemed to be impractical, but an improved alarm system that alerts them to unexpected guests is installed. The Admiral outright forbids the piranhas, but permits them to store phasers - set to nothing more than stun, barely better than the toys they gave to green cadets back home, back when there was a home - at strategic locations throughout the _château_. 

The Admiral also concedes, after much _badgering,_ an excellent word that Zhaban files away for later use, that a dog would be a suitable addition to the household. 

Laris has high hopes for the breed he seems fond of - according to her research, pitbulls were traditionally known for their ferocity. But the beast that they are introduced to one Spring morning seems more intent on attacking unattended shoes and, occasionally, its own shadow, than any would-be assassins.

"Well, that seems to settle it," the Admiral says, with a rare smile, when the creature lays its head on Laris's lap, apparently expectant of … something. 

Laris and Zhaban exchange a coded glance.

"It does?" Laris asks, doubtful.

"He likes you!"

This does not seem to be a necessary trait in a guard dog, but perhaps the Admiral knows best.

Laris reaches out a hand and rests it on the fearsome animal's head, testing.

Number One, for so he has been dubbed, the reasons for which neither of them fully understand as yet, makes a contented noise. His tail begins to oscillate.

"I suppose that does settle it," Zhaban sighs. Laris is so taken with the dog that she even forgets to glare at him.

*

There is no such thing as a former Tal Shiar. But sometimes, here, it’s almost possible to forget that.

Months pass, far more than the six that Laris had originally estimated their chances of survival at. Zhaban finally learns how to pronounce _croissant._ Laris discovers cryptic crosswords. 

(Number One does not become a good guard dog, but he does at least persuade the Admiral to take regular walks, which is useful in its own way.)

Continuing their education, Laris and Zhaban both find out about the joy of pinot noir at precisely the same time, one evening late in Summer, after a long day of working on the vines, and the pit trap to the eastern boundary of the estate that the Admiral has yet to find out about.

Recently, Zhaban has been experimenting with recreating traditional Romulan meals using local produce. The results, it's fair to say, have been … varied. But the Admiral seems to like them. 

And, it transpires, this particular dish pairs surprisingly well with a warm Summer evening and a pinot noir. 

“You do know you could just replicate this, don’t you?” Laris says, raising an eyebrow as he ladles her a portion. 

Zhaban gives her his best approximation of a Gallic shrug. He likes cooking. It keeps his mind occupied. And besides, it's easier to make sure that no one is poisoning them this way. 

“I could. It’s not the same, though.”

“Neither is this.”

“No. But it’s not … bad, is it?”

In reply, Laris spears something on her plate with well-practiced precision and holds it up to the moonlight. 

_Al fresco_ dining, Zhaban thinks to himself, savouring another satisfying human turn of phrase almost as much as the wine. Another thing that would have seemed impossible a year ago. Eating out in the open? Getting _drunk_ out in the open? Where any old sniper could cut you down like a prize at the fair? Unthinkable. 

“What is this?” Laris asks with a frown, suspicious and just the slightest bit unsteady after … oh. A whole bottle. 

Zhaban smiles at her over the rim of his glass.

“They call it a carrot.”

Laris takes a bite. Zhaban waits, uncharacteristically nervous, for her verdict. 

“No,” she says. “Not bad.”

After a second bottle, it’s even better. 

By the time they sink the third, the hills below them are alive with the sounds of crickets, and the sky above is full of stars. 

It’s not the same as home, not really. Nothing is, and nothing will be ever again. How could it be? But as compromises go, much like the carrot and the pinot noir, it’s not bad.

*

Zhaban wakes the next morning with a cool breeze playing around his face and a warm presence in the bed next to him.

He starts, sits bolt upright. The curtains are rippling gently. The window is wide open. 

The fug in his head from last night's alcohol lifts almost immediately. All senses now on full alert, he turns, slowly, half afraid of what he will find there. 

Sleeping is just about the most vulnerable state possible. Romulans, by their nature, do not sleep with others in the room. Ever. It’s a surefire way to ensure that you don’t wake up the following morning.

And yet, Laris, covers drawn up so that only the tips of her ears are visible, has been sleeping there all night, it would appear. With him. Also sleeping. 

They’ve grown soft.

Automatically, running purely on reflexes, he stretches out a hand to check her pulse.

“I’m hungover, not dead,” Laris mutters before he's even touched her, not stirring from her cocoon. “And if you’re going to insist on fidgeting, I’ll go straight back to my room.”

“Oh.” Nonplussed, and with seemingly nothing better to do and nothing in particular to worry about, Zhaban slides back down until he is fully under the covers again. Laris rolls over and wraps an arm around him, settles her head on his chest with a finality that makes it clear he has little say in the matter. _“Oh.”_

“Did that wine take what little sense you had left with it?” Laris grumbles into his collarbone. 

With something of an air of scientific study, Zhaban snakes his hand around her waist, feels the warmth of her bare skin beneath his palm.

When he doesn’t feel a blade sink between his ribs, he decides to keep it there.

“I don’t think it was just the wine,” he murmurs. 

Perhaps there really is no such thing as a former Tal Shiar. But Zhaban finds he is pleased that they’ve survived for long enough to try. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] Settle, by lorcaswhiskey](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23358817) by [Thimblerig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/pseuds/Thimblerig)




End file.
